


i won't leave you at the end

by Experi



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: F/M, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, first half: chaldea adventures and mat gathering! brynhild Thinks!, i love a wife guy. loving your spouse is the best possible character trait., second half: they boink, the duality of fanfiction, wholesome porn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-20
Updated: 2020-07-20
Packaged: 2021-03-05 06:21:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25399825
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Experi/pseuds/Experi
Summary: Brynhildr requests Ritsuka help her out in getting a day to fight alongside Sigurd.It's hard not to want to spoil Brynhildr.
Relationships: Brynhildr | Lancer/Sigurd | Saber
Comments: 3
Kudos: 39





	i won't leave you at the end

**Author's Note:**

> for aimee, whose AO3 i... do not know.  
> the request was "sigbryn having a usual day in Chaldea, but also they bone"  
> it got rEALLY LONG im sorry ;o; i talk a lot and I dont QUITE know how to write Sigurd so i was just "maybe some of this spaghetti i'm throwing will stick"

Ritsuka sits in their bed, leaning back against the headboard and absentmindedly fiddling with the tablet pen in their hands. They’ve been trying to word the report they’re writing for the past ten minutes and getting absolutely nowhere, though aren’t inclined to take the hint they should sleep quite yet. Fou is curled comfortably into a little ball of fluff near their ankles, his soft high-pitched snoring the only sound in the room.

The clicking sound of footsteps isn’t noticed until they come to a stop and there’s a tap-tap-tap on the closed panel door. Fou twitches a little, but doesn’t wake up. “It’s unlocked,” Ritsuka calls out. It’s probably rude not to let whoever it is in themselves, but they also… really don’t want to get up. There’s a moment, then the mechanical door slides open with a quiet wooshing. Fou looks up and blinks blearily. There… isn’t actually anyone immediately in the door frame. Instead, a head tilt and a curtain of hair from the side of the door. “Master?” Brynhildr peeks into the room, averting her gaze self-consciously as soon as she meets Ritsuka’s eyes. The flush on her face still stands out brightly with her pale skin. Ritsuka sits up a little straighter to look at her expectantly.

There’s no response for a good second or two as Brynhildr walks in, which Ritsuka usually takes to mean she’s preoccupied with keeping the fire down when her head’s full of heroes. So, it’s up to Ritsuka to start. “Whatcha need, Bryn?”

Brynhildr stays quiet until she can sit on the side of Ritsuka’s bed, the master scooting over a bit to allow her space. “Well,” she starts, voice soft and trailing. “Could I… ask you something selfish?”

“‘Course. Go ahead.” They can’t many any promises that they’ll oblige the request, but considering it’s not often that a Servant requests something destructive, Ritsuka’s ready to hear her out.

“You requested volunteers for tomorrows mission from the knight classes.” Ritsuka nods. There’s a short pause before Brynhildr continues on. “I wanted to be able to fight alongside Sigurd. A hero… my Sigurd… Master, do you think… if you used a Command Seal on me, you could help me keep the flames under control?” She turns to look at Ritsuka, leaning forward a little in ill-contained excitement. It’s difficult at times to be in the same facility as him, to be so close to who she loves so overwhelmingly and yet fully cognizant of the danger it poses to the facility at large if she were to get too enraptured in the feeling and lose control, destroy in love anything that should get in her way and the hero she loves. Even if he swears to take the brunt of it, and emerge with his arms still held open for her, most of the time Brynhild doesn’t want to inconvenience her dear Master with the crossfire.

Ritsuka purses their lips and looks down at the seals emblazoned in bright red on their hand. “I don’t know how long it will last, if I do.” Their command seals never really came with an owner’s manual, despite how long they’ve had them. Apparently they aren’t normally _supposed_ to regenerate, but in the trade-off they can be fairly transient. 

Some of Brynhildr’s excitement falls and Ritsuka can’t help but feel pangs of sympathy. “I mean -- you came at the right time, they regenerate while I sleep, so if I use one on you, the seal should come back in time if there’s an emergency tomorrow, but I don’t know if the command wears off when it does, so,” they gesture vaguely, uncertain of the lead-off.

So, if she gets excited to fight alongside Sigurd tomorrow and ends up fighting _him_ or having to head back to Chaldea to avoid friendly fire, well… it would sting Ritsuka’s empathy even more than her current hopeful look. It doesn’t dampen Brynhildr’s optimism, though. There’s a creeping sense of emotion sneaking in behind her words, despite her best efforts not to get carried away. “If it doesn’t work, I won’t begrudge you.” She says it with the restrained but sincere smile that she’s inadvertently perfected, and Ritsuka can’t say no to that.

Another glance down at their command seals before Ritsuka exhales and holds up their hand before Brynhildr. “Alright, uhm.” How’s the best way to phrase this. Ritsuka closes their eyes to concentrate. “By the power of my command seal, I order you to not hurt Sigurd for at least tomorrow.” That should cover it, right? Specific enough to keep him in one piece and maybe last a little longer… Ritsuka isn’t completely oblivious, they think it’d be nice if Brynhildr got to hang out with her husband(?) more often.

Even if it is difficult to wrangle. The command settles over Brynhildr in a dusting of red sparkles that fade into her after a second or two. She’s smiling widely, or as wide as her expressions get, which means it’s a close-lipped and sincere thing, bright like sun on snow. Ritsuka grina back and gives her a thumbs up. “We’ll see how it works, but you’ll be out on the field tomorrow!”

Brynhildr nods and stands. “Thank you, Master.” Her voice is the same half-whisper as it always is, but Ritsuka knows well enough to tell when she’s excited. Brynhildr fidgets a little bit, straightening out her skirt, before she peeks a smile again at Ritsuka and excuses herself.

There’s a lightness in her step this time. The door slides shut behind her, and Ritsuka watches it for a few moments before they stretch their hands over their head and yawn wide enough to make their jaw pop. Well, this time, they’ll give up and set aside the tablet, tell the doors to lock, and join Fou in curling up in the blankets. There’s things set in stone to look forward to tomorrow, after all.

The day starts early, because it always does. Ritsuka vaguely recalls living a life where they slept in until noon every so often, or at the very least took getting eight hours of sleep on a mattress that exists for granted. At least they have a bed that fits them here, and got somewhere vaguely around the proper amount of sleep.

Lucky for Servants that they don’t have the same sleep-related concerns as their Master. Ritsuka yawns walking to the training sim, where Brynhildr is already sitting on the bench outside, eyes bright and absentmindedly swinging her legs. Ritsuka waves to her, and gets a polite not and half-whispered ‘hello’ in return. Even Valkyries can act more like schoolgirls waiting for a crush, huh. Before Ritsuka can greet her properly, there’s the clattering sound of sandals at a light jog, and Hokusai comes down the hall, waving, with the octopus floating alongside her and Sigurd walking placidly behind her. “Heya, Master! Ya got a buncha strangers prepped today, but at least ya added another cute girl, eh?” Hokusai chirps. A wink is given to Brynhildr, who straightens up in her seat, embarrassed. 

Sigurd is quiet, clearly not entirely sure what his actions should be around Brynhildr, who is doing her best to be restrained, sit on her hands. Ritsuka isn’t sure, either, but figures that Brynhildr rarely appreciates attention being called to her, so they just clap their hands decisively once everyone is in front of the training room doors. “Aaaalrighty! So, we’ll be running a Berserker node a bit today. Hokusai’s here for clearing up the front lines, and I’m gonna have Bryn and Sig try to get your Phantasms prepped and ready for the back-line commanders. Sound good?”

Hokusai gives a “gotcha, gotcha,” in reply. Sigurd nods seriously. “I will do my best, Master.”

A quiet noise of assent from Brynhildr as she stands up, though her attention is largely on trying to inconspicuously watch Sigurd, and failing horribly at not being noticeable. She hovers behind ritsuka as the doors to the training shift slide open and the other two Servants file in. Brynhildr’s hand catches Ritsuka’s sleeve just before Ritsuka can join them.

“Doing alright?” Ritsuka asks.

Brynhildr nods. “My spear… is for Sigurd alone.”

“That’s fine. You can use runes to support instead, I won’t make you pull out your Phantasm. Good?”

Brynhildr brightens up and releases Ritsuka’s sleeve. “Yes. Thank you, Master.”

Ritsuka gives her a thumbs up. “I’m here to help.” Walking alongside one another, they enter the training room, with the familiar buzz of energy over Ritsuka’s skin of entering a place that isn’t completely real. The layout unfolds, of an building interior, vaguely similar to the Roman palace they’d infiltrated a long time ago. The enemies spawn shortly after Ritsuka solidifies fully, the sound of stone creaking and shuffling footsteps.

Hokusai whistles a jaunty little tune, adjusting her paintbrush to more of a battle-ready stance. She turns to flash Sigurd and Brynhildr a smile. “Don’t worry, Toto and I are good at cleanin’ up this kinda group. You guys just watch my back ‘till it’s my turn, ‘kay?”

“Of course,” Sigurd answers as his blade materializes in a flash of green. He doesn’t hear Brynhildr chime in, but the sound of her footsteps behind him is enough. She’s not the sort to let someone go without support, after all. Her spear condenses in an auroric glitter, and her grip on its handle is tight.

Sigrud stands before her and some part of her wants to sink the blade into him, take his heart literally and figuratively for hers, carry him to Valhalla while his body bleeds out. Even if that’s not how Heroic Spirits work, it is how  _ she _ works. But the command seal upon her dances invisibly over her hands like a cold chill. It doesn’t freeze her. Nothing could, but it stills her blade from where it cannot yet go. Brynhildr gives a tiny smile down to her hands, which do not shake and which do not turn her lance toward Sigurd. She walks to stand alongside him.

“I’m ready,” she says in a whisper. There’s a barely restrained excitement to her posture, a little straighter than normal, a little more anticipatory, that goes completely unnoticed to anyone except Sigurd. For Hokusai’s part, she’s not particularly concerned either way as the first wave, a handful of reanimated sailors, shambles into the field. Her brush does indeed dance, much like herself.

Sigurd takes the chance to look to Brynhildr before things get too complicated. “Are you alright alongside me, love?”

The pet name is enough to make her smile a little more. “Yes. I wanted so badly to fight alongside you again. For now, my spear is to keep my beloved safe.”

Sigurd laughs lightly, something that only Brynhildr gets to hear (and so she’ll keep it close to her chest). “You know I trust you with my life and death. I’m honoured. Shall we join, before miss Foreigner chides us?”

Brynhildr’s smile makes her eyes crinkle. “Mhm.” The grip on her lance shifts into a ready stance, it held down and prepared to swipe into any of the undead that happen to come across Hokusai’s painted landscapes. Sigurd hops into battle, keeping to the fringes where the enchanted paint doesn’t splatter. He has no reason to watch where Brynhildr is -- he can hear her behind him, and her magical energy is like a comforting buzz that’s easy to monitor without looking. Sigurd neatly decapitates one of the undead sailors with a darting blade. He hears an approving cheer from Master behind them, overseeing. (And, once they have the space to move on, they’ll be poking around the remains for magecraft materials before they vanish.)

It’s an ever moving goal, slowly pressing further down the hallway. Sigurd falls into the beat of it easily. Brynhild is near him, her motions in easy tandem with his. Hokusai shifts gradually to one side and allows the stragglers to be funneled to Sigurd and Brynhildr. There’s a certain monotony to it. A slash towards one of the undead’s hands. The glint of Brynhildr’s spear, the slow build of magical energy within Sigurd’s blade. He keeps focus, breathing even. Shoulders his spiked armour into a rambling undead.

Stone grinds and Hokusai lets out an “aw, man!” as a few stone constructs shuffle into range. Sigurd looks up -- just as a rush of wind and the icy chill of Brynhildr’s blade slings its way past his neck, a single instant away from slicing him open. The tip instead pierces a sailor’s outstretched hand just before it can close over Sigurd. Easily, the same nonchalance as breathing, Sigurd turns to give Brynhildr a smile, disregarding the brush of her blade against him before she’s able to pull it away. “Where would I be without you?” He asks.

Brynhildr gives him the tiniest of pouts. “I… want to be the only one able to pierce your heart.”

“Yes, my apologies.” His blade shifts in grip and casts up to deflect a stray rock, knocked from a construct. “I’ll be more careful.”

Brynhildr gives him a single huff, before deciding he understands that no harm will come to him from hands that aren’t hers. She hops back to take on a construct before it can get any closer. The parting gift left behind is a rune for strengthening, knitting closed any scrapes Sigurd got. He would thank her aloud, but it’s a distraction from the fight she’s gotten into now, and she knows already. A better thanks is to take Hokusai’s place as she flags. She was cornered by two of the stone creatures, until Sigurd darts under one’s arm and neatly dispatches it.

“I’m runnin’ low on paint!” Hokusai squeaks as she takes the opening to fall back.

Ritsuka’s voice echoes in from a few meters away. “Are you guys okay? Hokusai, leave it to Sig and Bryn for a bit. Evade.” Sigurd calls back an affirmative to them. Between him and Brynhildr, they’re quick. It comes at a bit of a price: despite Sigurd’s best efforts, he can’t help but get a few more scratches from the crystal shrapnel.

Pity, he wanted to prove to Brynhildr that she really was the only person allowed to draw his blood. (She’ll forgive him. It’s a fight, and it’s for Master’s sake, after all.) Ritsuka jogs to catch up with them, hopping neatly over a pile of fallen stone. “Sig, is your Phantasm ready?”

“Yes.”

“Good, should be some Servants upcoming. Fire as soon as you can. Bryn! Clear a path for him.”

Brynhildr takes the invitation with determined dedication. This if for her dear Master and her beloved Sigurd, no matter how hard the stone construct might hit, she’ll hit harder. Quicken the pace, cast a rune on herself that makes her spear blaze with magic and shatter the crystal giant it hits. Clear a space, make a place for Sigurd to shine when she lets him take the leading step in this dance.

Perfect, lovely, and the red buzz of Ritsuka’s command seal on her hands leaves Brynhildr certain that there won’t be any stray hits where she can’t yet allow them. A Servant. One shadow, and one knight cloaked in shadow. She knows the knight, by now, and there’s no particular love she has for him. (Maybe once, he could have been worth her spear, even if he didn’t share a field with Sigurd who dulls everyone in comparison.) Ritsuka whistles a sharp note, a signal, just as soon as Brynhildr swings her spear and ducks out of the way.

Sigurd doesn’t need to be told. His blades flick into the air, with a crackling of magic that makes Brynhildr’s heart swell to watch. (She taught him runes, she helped him with the sort of magic that does this, the bursts of of light and wind singing over a blade.) She watches him instead of the enemy Servants. He’s like a painting, moving art and the exact sort of hero she was always crafted for. The hero who leaps forward and plunges his sword, crackling with magic, into the howling suit of armour that constitutes (constituted) a Berserker.

Brynhildr clutches her lance to her chest reflexively, enraptured watching him, as her heart beats in her ears. She could help him, and take care of the shadow. She could, if she wants to, but she doesn’t need to, something she knows with certainty. And this is why, as Sigurd doesn’t need the orders that Ritsuka gives anyways, to catch his daggers and turn his focus to the shadow, that he is the most  _ beloved _ of all her heroes. If she helps, it’s welcome, and he adjusts easily to her presence. If she watches and her heart revels in the battle song, he isn’t helpless.

A hero is powerful, just, ruthless without cruelty, a hero stands now with chest heaving as his breaths catch up to him and the black shadow collapses into sparkling dust.

Sigurd straightens up.

A sudden voice from behind Brynhildr: “Your look wouldn’t be half-bad for a painting.”

Brynhildr jerks to attention with a muffled noise of surprise, as Hokusai laughs amiably and steps back from behind her. “Sorry, sorry!” She couldn’t resist but try and surprise her a little. It wasn’t a lie, though -- beautiful women are one of her preferred subject, and Brynhildr’s moony expression is worth a little art. Lucky Saber over there, Hokusai thinks, without any actual jealousy.

“Ah, it’s, uhm… fine?” Brynhildr answers. Her concern is more with Sigurd, now that she’s been brought back into focus. Her steps are light over to him, her lance fading once again into a shimmer and nothing else.

He accepts her concern gladly, though there isn’t anything to be worried about. There was no time for him to be harmed at all. It doesn’t stop Brynhildr from taking his hands in hers and delicately inspecting for any cuts she can heal.

Ritsuka is the last to arrive, stuck being a little bit more careful lest they want to sprain an ankle. “That--” and they slip a little, have to catch themselves, then hop onto clear ground, “was excellent! Good job! And we got like, five octuplet crystals, so I think we’re good on that front. The next round will be for the Archers, though. You guys need any cure-alls?”

“I believe I’m well taken care of,” Sigurd says, with the barest hint of a joke in his voice. It’s a little more obvious than Brynhildr’s sparse attempts at lightness at least, that he’s just teasing the Lancer, and Ritsuka picks up on it. So does Brynhildr, whose cheeks redden.

She herself is fine (and even if she weren’t, would pay her own injuries no mind whatsoever). Hokusai swings an arm around Ritsuka’s shoulders. “Yeah, I could go for some snacks, Master.”

That’s enough a cue as any. Ritsuka laughs lightly. “Let me clean up here first, before the magic dies out. We can go have tea after. You guys, uhm,” they turn to Sigurd and Brynhildr, who has released Sigurd’s hands from her inspection but not her hold, “you can head back whenever you want. The next round won’t be for a bit, so no rush. Thank you for your help today.”

It’s not a rayshift, those are still fairly sparse, but it’s still important work. Sigurd smiles, his fingers tightening around Brynhildr’s in an unspoken invitation to her. “Of course. We’re here to help.” He would be fine staying and helping pick up the materials Ritsuka uses for their magecraft, as would Brynhildr. But they  _ were _ given leave, and if he’s able to have Brynhildr at his side for however long it might be, he intends to make the most of it.

And, perhaps, to spoil his wife a little, because her smile is too endearing for him to want anything else. Ritsuka lets them leave with a wave from them and Hokusai alike, as Sigurd walks hand-in-hand with Brynhildr back to the training room door. 

Before exiting, though, he stops. “Is it only while we’re training, that you’re at peace at my side?” That she’s comfortable around him, doesn’t have the concern of friendly fire welling tears in her eyes. (As much as it pains him, he would rather she be at least content away from him rather than overwhelmed and trying not to act against her own wishes at his side.)

“I don’t know,” Brunhildr replies. “...Are you worried?”

“No. I just want what’s best for you.”

He leans to give her nose a quick kiss, and she feels that maybe he alone is what’s best for her. She lets him hold the door open for her to pass through first.

Brynhildr slips her arm around Sigurd’s in a wordless request, and Sigurd takes it as the only reasonable thing to let her do, to guide her with him back through the facility. Her heels click along his footsteps. It’s such a minor thing to feel accomplished about, the sound of being accompanied, but it makes Sigurd’s heart warm nonetheless. Something like the mundanity of being a couple. The armour he was wearing and the weapons strapped to him disappear into nothing. Perhaps he will wake up tomorrow with a spear through his sternum, but he would also wake up with Brynhildr’s hand on his cheek, so it would be a good ending nonetheless. 

So, he walks arm in arm with her to the Servant’s quarters section. Sigurd gives a polite greeting to people they pass, Servants milling about and a few that take a short conversation -- he can’t help but want to show off Brynhildr at his side a little. There’s a sort of satisfaction in being able to walk with her next to him, to play the part of couple they weren’t allowed in life and rarely get in death. However long it might last.

There is still a little of a tugging at the back of Brynhildr’s thoughts, the worry ever-present that she is a hero-killer and there will always be a fire in her, but she’s able to ignore it. Or, at least, to know it won’t overtake her quite yet. Seeing others makes her keep to herself, but she likes hearing Sigurd talk or seeing him get on with others, even if it’s as simple as something in passing.

Brynhildr’s mind wanders a little: Sigurd’s cadence, the difference from when he talks to other Servants and to herself (he’s softer with Brynhildr, a barely-there shift that makes affections clear), and the feeling of his body next to hers. 

Hm. Hm-hm. Brynhildr reaches over to take Sigurd’s hand and weave her fingers with his instead of holding his arm. He doesn’t startle or look down, just gives her hand a light squeeze in return. Her tug is just barely insistent, the pace of her walking only enough for him to notice. A little bit… she’d like a little bit else, if she’s given the chance, and that she’s gotten her fill now of fighting and peace next to him. It helps her be greedy when she knows Sigurd would oblige anything she asks. He looks to Brynhildr. “I was wondering when you would get impatient.”

A tiny frown. “Teasing is rude.”

“Ahah. Sorry, I couldn’t help but do it a little.” Just testing her patience toward the end, merely for fun. Brynhildr continues to pout at him. The exact temptation is that he’d like to carry her off, just to make her flush, but that wouldn’t quite pass muster. (And she would protest that as a Valkyrie,  _ she’s _ the one who’s supposed to be carrying  _ him _ . She would be correct.) Of course, he’ll still indulge her. Including letting her lead them off to Sigurd’s quarters. (He’d assumed she’d choose her own, but this is fine as well.)

Brynhildr might know the location of his room, but she doesn’t know the lock code, so she’ll stand back for the exact amount of time it takes for Sigurd to unlock his door, gesture for her to enter first, and close it behind them both. As soon as they’re safely in private, Brynhildr immediately hops to sling her arms around Sigurd’s shoulders and kiss him properly. Verbal displays of affection in public are on thing, the gazes and statements that she’s very much in love with him, but physical affection like this -- it’s a bit much to ask of her to kiss his cheek where the public might see, and she wants so much  _ more _ than something as chaste as that. Sigurd holds her up around the waist immediately as his back falls against the door. Just a bit impatient. Brynhildr kisses him deep and breathless, barely gives either of them time to breathe (she would prefer if she didn’t even have to do that, could just hold onto him and not have to concern herself with anything else).

It’s not exactly ulterior motives when she pulls Sigurd over to the bed and steers him to sit there. She’s been rather overt about her motives. Brynhild hops up to kneel over him, taking a second to keep Sigurd’s cheeks held in her hands and admire the image of it. “I’m glad we fought alongside each other today,” Sigurd tells her lightly.

“But tomorrow, I might have to kill you,” Brynhildr replies softly, with love in her voice that doesn’t match the words on her lips.

Sigurd smiles at her and gently pulls her down into another kiss. “And tomorrow, I will accept that love and come back from the dead to greet you,” he says in the half-inch between them. He feels Brynhildr’s smile instead of seeing it, as a girlish giggle bubbles over and she throws herself into a hug, her cheek pressed against his, that Sigurd allows to bowl him over onto his back.

Sigurd’s grin in return is involuntary as he returns the hug. Brynhildr lets it sit for a moment before she wriggles and shifts to lean over Sigurd with her hands cupping his cheeks. She kisses the bridge of his nose, his brows, his cheekbones, his smile, until he laughs and she sits up. Brynhildr’s hair cascades over her shoulder, a faint magical glittering like stars trapped deep under ice.

“You truly are beautiful,” Sigurd tells her. No matter the scenario, if it’s here where she sits over him and glows like a constellation or if she’s holding up her spear aimed for his heart, she’s beautiful. Her cheeks go pink (and that’s endearing too, how her skin is pale rough to give away the slightest embarrassment as a flush). He reaches up to brush a strand of hair behind her ear, and Brynhildr turns her head in time to kiss the side of his hand before it drops back once more. There’s a shift as she sits up a little more, as if trying to distract herself from the self-conscious appeasement of being complimented.

Brynhildr smooths her hands over the fabric of Sigurd’s shirt. He’s dressed so modern in the Servant manifestation. It’s cute, showing how he adapts to the times and that he’s equally handsome in modern military equipment and the garb of a Norseman -- or, maybe that’s only Brynhildr’s own biases. The fabric is interesting to touch, in part because it’s something of Sigurd’s and she doesn’t get to be near him too often, so she’ll memorize it while she can. Even something as irrelevant as the texture of his shirt.

She makes sure it’s immaculately in place, gives it a moment for her to memorize the way his chest looks in it, then hums approvingly to herself and pushes it up over his midsection. Sigurd helps by leaning himself up and tugging off his shirt once it gets close enough to his shoulders. Brynhildr’s fingers are cold, all of the heat to her kept to her core, and she traces her fingertips lightly over the divots of Sigurd’s musculature. There are a few scars here and there, memories of cuts, but none so many as a hero is generally expected. Perhaps one of the side-effects of being a Servant. Only the strong marks stay. His sternum in unmarred as if in invitation to her lance, an open space that begs to be speared. One day, too, it will. Even if there is no more Valhalla, Brynhildr will still carry him off with her.

She leans down, tucking her hair behind her ear, and marks his chest with a kiss instead. Sigurd’s heart beats beneath her. The life of it, the love of it. Sigurd’s hands find her hips and he lifts her gently to settle her straddling his chest. He kisses her again and the last of her armour as well disappears in a soft golden sparkling. Sigurd is careful with the way he unlaces her chestpiece and draws the ribbon free from her collar. Brynhildr lets him pull off her top for her.

She fixes her hair back into order after he does, a quick motion to tuck it back over her shoulder, but seeing her in a rare state of physical disarray (mild as her hair being askew might be) makes Sigurd exhale a laugh. He can’t quite bend up to kiss her where he’d like to with how she’s sitting, so Sigurd settles for lifting her hand in his and pressing lips to the heel of her palm. 

Brynhildr twines her fingers with his and shifts back a bit so she has the space to lean down. She keeps her hold of his hand, light and gentle, as she lavishes the attention and affection onto him that she’s always pushed to hold back for his safety. She’ll touch and memorize all of him, anything that makes him breathe a little sharper. This is where she can be patient and meticulous, when it comes not to keeping herself restrained but to showing her care to Sigurd. Sometimes she nips, just for the sake of leaving a few marks around his collarbone. A statement physically that she was there, will continue to be here, and he’s hers. Sigurd’s free hand wanders, from the curve of her waist to her chest, rolling her nipple under his thumb (which makes her hum softly - just a little sensitive), moving to trace over her jawline and help brush her hair back when she leans a bit too close for his hand to be able to wander her front.

Brynhildr takes time trailing her hands and lips over every part of him she can reach without having to climb off of him, giving quietly whispered reminders of her care for him and the want, until she’s satisfied with her process and can look up to see the unswayable Sigurd with a dusting of red over his cheeks. Brynhildr leans her chin against his chest and smiles innocently up at him. She shifts her hips until she can feel his arousal against her ass. The innocent smile widens, just a little.

“You seem proud of yourself.”

“Hm.” Her smile widens. Perhaps she is. Just perhaps. It’s nice to be proven that he wants her physically, too, even though she already knows that. Brynhildr sits back up in order to unclasp her skirt, which Sigurd takes as an opportunity to touch her again, return her favour of lavishing touch -- for a moment, anyways, until Brynhildr takes his by the wrists and pushes them back down to the bed. “You, hold still.”

Sigurd laughs and relents. “Alright, alright.” He’ll stay in place. It does give him the free space to watch appreciatively as Brynhildr delicately moves to slip off her skirt and panties with it. The tights are all she’s left in when she resumes her position straddling Sigurd with a little stretch to re-adjust herself (and to show off a little). She’s well-muscled, with her weight settled to her hips and smooth skin. God-created things heal quickly, after all, and she is the most perfect of her mold (as much as she or her sisters might try to protest that she is flawed from her design by this acquisition of a human heart). She lets Sigurd rest his hands on her thighs and absently stroke over her with his thumbs, so long as he doesn’t move too much. He can’t resist the urge to be slightly handsy.

Brynhildr hums to herself as she leans back and undoes Sigurd’s pants behind her. She pushes them and his underwear down just enough to pull his cock free. She has very little interest in giving him time to kick out of his pants (and has largely forgotten about the option of dematerializing clothing). Brynhildr kneels over him so she can at least vaguely see what she’s doing, before taking him in hand again and gently stroking his dick. Beads of precum slick her hand and Brynhild smiles to herself as she feels Sigurd’s grip on her thighs get a little tighter.

He exhales slowly through his nose. There’s an attempt made to ensure his voice is still even when he speaks again. “Do you want me to help you?” Brynhildr gives him a glance before shaking her head ‘no’. A quiet mutter that it’ll be fine. Given her current state. 

So, she’ll lead because she wants to, and because Sigurd likes watching her. His gaze is attentive and just as burning as she’s always afraid of being. He watches the curve of her hips as she sinks down onto him, biting her lips in concentration (propriety, keeping quiet), until a tiny “ah,” falls out of her as their hips meet. Sigurd makes himself hold still, despite the very present want to roll his hips. “Are you alright?” he asks instead.

Brynhildr props a hand against Sigurd’s shoulder to balance her weight, and nods. A moment, to even out her breathing again, as it feels the fire catches, but she cannot get too passionate, even though the heat in her stomach and the stretch of being full makes her want to. She nods. Just a moment, for her to -- she squeaks surprised when a hand settles on her hip and another just under her breast. “Good,” Sigurd says, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

It is as simple as that, sometimes. Sigurd’s hand half-guides half-follows along with her as she slowly raises herself back up. Brynhildr takes her time with riding him. She wants to memorize it, watchin Sigurd’s breathing slowly pick up beneath her, the way he hasn’t noticed his lips are parted. The light tinge of pink over his cheek, how he feels inside her, his hand moving to cup her breast. Every aspect of Sigurd is hers, and she wants to take everything she can, draw out every expression of his before her heart falls into an ember.

Everything is deliberate, even when she can’t resist any more the temptation to move just a little quicker. Sigurd’s quiet, because of course he is (and Brynhildr has no room to judge that). She understands it nonetheless. A moment where his eyes flutter clothes, a hitch in breath, or a rare single-syllable muttered under his beath; all are the same as praises sung to her or an open moan, and Brynhildr chases them down with the same eagerness. “My Sigurd,” she whispers to him as she rocks her hips down, rolls the motion and inhales sharply at the changed angle. “I love you, I love you…” A little bit of a crack in her voice.

Sigurd meets her movement with his own. The single hiccup in her control is an invitation enough to help her come undone. “You don’t need to hold back,” he murmurs in reply. Brynhildr leans down, folding herself over to press her body against his, as close as she can. She wants to (has to) feel him, as much as possible, close enough to be inseparable. Her breath comes warm against Sigurd’s neck and she’ll let him do half the duty of keeping their rhythm now, his hands steering her hips to match him. There’s tiny noises every time he bottoms out into her, a quiet wanting whine he can only hear when she’s as close as she is, and it makes Sigurd want to drink her. To give everything she asks for when she moves quicker or when her fingers curl against his chest.

She tightens around him and it makes Sigurd mutter her name in a low voice she doesn’t hear in any other context. “More,” Brynhildr says, without knowing exactly what  _ more _ she’s asking for; more of him, more of the warmth pooling in her abdomen, more of the hands on her.

Instead Sigurd simply says “yes,” in that same low mutter into her ear, just as he thrusts his dick up into her, and Brynhildr comes with a stuttering exhale, back arching to try and press even tighter against him.

Sigurd fucks her through it, whispering the he loves her, that she’s beautiful like this and like always, that he’d give her the world, until her tightening makes him release as well. He still tries to keep the pace, even if it becomes uneven, because the the first concern is that she’s satisfied. Sigurd feels Brynhildr’s lips against his cheek as his grip on her slowly relaxes and he pants to catch his breath.

Brynhildr makes a quiet noise of partial complaint when he draws out of her. Sigurd knows that she won’t be satisfied with just once, that she wants so powerfully that it’s all that moves her, and as soon as she regains her composure and has her fill of laying still against him. It’s endearing of her, the demanding side that she still manages to be self conscious about. And he’ll be here to indulge her until she’s satisfied, or at least until she’s too tired to ask for anything more. He thinks that with a small quirk of a smile, as Brynhildr on cue shifts against him and pushes herself up to look at him, almost nose-to-nose.

There’s a pause of complete silence, impromptu, which she breaks by ducking her head in a breathy laugh. She can’t help it, he’s cute - !

“Is it okay,” Brynhildr asks, “if I don’t leave yet?” She still does not know when the command seal will wear off and she’ll kill him again, but the feeling of it is lesser now than it was in the morning.

Sigurd doesn’t care. He smiles at her. There’s a beat before he takes her by surprise with abruptly hooking his leg over hers and switching their positions so he can lean above her, propped up on his elbows. “I would be hurt if you didn’t stay the night, love.”

Brynhildr cups his cheek with a hand and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> wanna hit me up and watch me complain about fic in realtime? @durindanna on twit !
> 
> Hokusai is there because I like her, I guess? I felt like it. She's neat.  
> hokusai: [flirts]  
> bryn: ma'am i am married??  
> hokusai: its chill he can hang out with us too?


End file.
